A Measure of Grace
by Saritadreaming
Summary: A virus sweeps over the earth, killing man and man's best friend. For the few survivors, the nightmare is just beginning. Who set the virus free, and how far will the remains of the government go to find a cure? An innocent girl, a fiercely loyal dog, a jaded man with a past. Can they survive this new world and its secrets? E/B, AH
1. Chapter 1 Grace

**A/N: Hello, awesome readers! Explanation about the origins of this story at the end of the chapter. This is an AH Dystopian that may deal with unpleasant and dark matters. This intro chapter is _very_ short; most chapters will be longer.**

**No infringement intended, la, la, la. My bank account assures me I own nothing.**

**Huge thanks to my prereaders, Keye, Sandy, and Aleea, for their valuable feedback and friendship. Mucho thanks to Claudia from Phantasy Graphic Design for the f-awesome banner. I don't know how she plucks the images right out of my head, but her talent astounds me. Last but never least, my super-awesome beta, SassySue (chayasara), who is as talented with reshaping the written word as Claudia is with the graphics. Mwah!**

**Chapter 1**

**~Grace~**

In a moment, life changes. Between the lines of life lie fuses waiting to be lit, leading to explosions with the potential to carve out crevices or craters. Sometimes the new landscape is welcome, and sometimes it's so far from okay—and yet we manage to go on.

Ghosts flood my mind, dipping and swirling. Mike's hulking body collapsed to the floor; Mamie's wrinkled, tanned skin thin as onion paper as she languished in her bed; Katie slumped over at the kitchen table, metal piercings a harsh glint against her alabaster skin; Dover with his tangled coat, dried out tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. All of them blistering hot—hotter than any being could survive. My police chief father went back into the fray again and again. One day he didn't return.

Coolness blankets my skin, intruding on my thoughts. A damp shiver works its way over me like a snake, writhing and biting into my flesh. I still hear Dover's last pathetic pants even though the dream faded. I roll, feeling grit and sharp edges dig into my cheek.

The panting grows louder, stopping only for a soft whine then continuing.

"Dover?" My vocal cords grate like sandpaper.

Something soft and dry nudges at my face, and then a warm, wet tongue licks from the base of my jaw to my temple, catching and lifting an eyelid in the process. I squint against the sudden brightness, expecting steel-gray fur and finding wiry black and tan instead. The two large paws planted next to my head belong to a large dog. Maybe a Shepherd mix. Not Dover. Dover is gone.

From my side-lying position, the world is a strange mix of craggy brown and cinder, set against smooth blue and fluffy white. I lift my head, and the world spins for a few seconds.

The dog barks and whines again, biting at my sleeve.

A short distance away are ruins. Their debris is strewn across the top of the cliff—a chunk of it pokes me in the hip—but whatever occurred here happened long ago. I find this comforting.

I don't remember how I arrived here, or even know where here is, but the air is clean and tangy with the brine of the sea.

The dog barks sharply, crawls with her belly low to the ground until she reaches my camouflage rucksack and sniffs it. I can count her ribs, and skin sags around her haunches.

"Are you hungry, girl? I might have something to share." I lean forward and snag a strap, dragging the bag toward me. Unzipping a side pocket, I pull out a Slim-Jim, peel the plastic wrapper back, and break the stick in half, holding it out. "Here you go."

Her ears stand up, and her tail swishes back and forth. She watches me with mistrust in her eyes though it's obvious how much she wants the food.

"Come on, girl. If you want it, you have to meet me halfway."

She tilts her head and whines, approaching slowly.

"Did someone scare you out here? I won't hurt you." My stomach rumbles, so I slide the plastic off the other half and pop it into my mouth. "Yummy!"

She decides to take a chance and nips the jerky gently from my hand, chewing slowly as if savoring it. As emaciated as she is, I expected her to snarf it down.

"Where are we, girl? Are there any people around here?" I rise to my feet and walk off the stiffness that has set in. From this vantage point, I can see towns and villages below. It all looks so peaceful and quaint, unspoiled—except for the absence of smoke curling into the air, movement of any kind, animals or people.

There are no vehicles clogging the streets, no signs the townspeople tried to run. It looks pristine and perfect and abandoned. Back home, there was no getting away from the evidence. After a while, it was impossible to traverse the cars blocking the roads or ignore the stench of death.

The destruction of the human race ripped across the world, leaving few unscathed. The worst part was the dogs. Human viruses don't usually affect animals, but this one did, leaving hundreds of beloved family pets dead. Most people retreated to their beds to die, but many of the affected animals went ballistic, running through the streets until they dropped dead.

"So, you wanna be pals? You must be immune, too." I hold out my hand, and she licks it. "You need a name. How about Grace? You took that Slim-Jim so gently even though you must be starving. What's next for us, Grace? What happened to all the people down there?"

I've lost count of the days. It's been a few weeks since I've seen any others. I keep moving, foraging for food . . . looking for answers.

**~AmoG~**

**A/N: So, what's this? A new story from that chick who has a bunch of unfinished stories? **_**A Measure of Grace**_** is an experiment for me. I'm a participating author on an original fiction blog that posts stories based on picture prompts. I just completed a novel-length serial original fiction and have started another. I've decided to write a Twi version of this new Dystopian to share with fellow Twi-hards. Since I'm committed to posting on the blog every two weeks, a chapter of **_**A Measure of Grace**_** will post every two weeks. The chapters will be shorter than my usual—somewhere between 1K and 3K—but there won't be lapses in posting like with some of my other fics. Why am I doing this? No preaching here, but I don't believe in publishing-for-profit on stories that have already been posted on the Internet for free; this includes original fiction. I love fanfic and regret how little time I have to put into my ongoing fics, so this is my partial solution.**

**Chapter two will be posted next week. Then we will be on the biweekly schedule. Thanks so much for reading!**

**Follow me on Twitter: SaritaDreaming or SarahAisling**

**Fanfic Blog: SaritaDreaming . wordpress .com**


	2. Chapter 2 Stumped

**A/N: Thanks for the faves, alerts, and support for the first chapter! You guys rock!**

**A couple of McIntoshes to my lovely prereaders, Keye, Sandy, and Aleea. Mega appreciation to my beta, SassySue (chayasara), for smoothing the prose.**

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**Chapter 2**

**~Stumped~**

A bird's nest rests on the palm of an outstretched hand. Standing proudly in the center of the colorless, dried-up strands is not a bird but a lemon yellow buttercup. A few fresh, green blades of grass dot the otherwise lifeless landscape. A gloved hand reaches over and plucks the buttercup from the nest, pinching it between two fingers. The grass promptly wilts, and the nest crumbles to dust.

"No!" I sit up in the pitch dark, gasping and shivering cold. "The buttercup . . ." Tears fill my eyes as I mourn the loss of my dream flower. It wasn't just any bloom. I know there was something special about it, just not what.

The night is clear with enough stars gleaming in the sky that I can make out the shadow of Grace sitting beside the circle of stones I used as a makeshift fire ring. I glance at my watch—it's just after midnight—and back at the extinguished fire. At the least, there should still be smoke curling into the air. I crawl forward and stare down at the pile of dirt that smothered my fire then look over at Grace. Surely she would have alerted me if a stranger were poking around. Turning quickly, I check through my meager belongings, but everything is intact.

"What happened to the fire, Grace?" I whisper.

Grace licks her chops and lets out a high-pitched whine. She shuffles her feet and fixes two dark, hungry eyes on my rucksack.

"Nice try, girl. We have to conserve our rations—especially now that there are two of us." I zip my jacket and dig an emergency blanket out, wrapping it around myself.

Grace tilts her head and sniffs at the crackly silver covering. Deciding it's okay, she curls up facing away from me. After a few minutes, I lie down and pull the blanket over my head. Sleeping out in the open doesn't worry me so much tonight because I know Grace will sense danger. It's been a while since I've seen any other survivors anyway.

Earlier, I looked down at the village, wondering if I'd see any sign of life once darkness fell. There wasn't a pinprick of light or a curl of smoke as far as my eyes could discern. I'm somewhat used to the silence now, but the sight of the empty streets causes goosebumps to erupt over my flesh. My instincts scream that something is amiss, but the little voice in my head says I'm paranoid because this is the world I live in now. I reach out and run my fingers through Grace's fur, enjoying the warmth of another living being. If she weren't here, any chance of sleep would be stolen. As it is, I'm exhausted.

While I lie on the cold ground and peek at the stars from underneath the Mylar blanket, waiting for sleep to claim me, I wonder again how I ended up on the top of this cliff. The last thing I recall before waking here is coming down with a high fever, shuddering chills, and all-over body aches. I feared the worst, assuming I wasn't immune to the deadly virus after all. I don't know how long I slept or how many days were spent stumbling around. Thus far, I've kept track of time using tally marks, but I have no idea how much time I lost. I drift off, counting tally marks instead of sheep.

Morning brings rays of sun burning through a thick haze of fog that shrouds the sea and clings to the ground like a smokescreen. I perch on an outcropping with Grace beside me and watch the fog dissipate, leaving behind a grayish sky and churning water. Storm clouds gather in the distance, and the bite of the wind tells me we'll need to seek shelter tonight.

I share Slim-Jims and an apple with Grace. I'm not sure where the apple came from, but its sweet juice dribbling down my chin brings a rare smile to my face. Grace gobbles her portion and licks her lips. She nudges her nose against my leg, hoping for more.

"That's it, girl." I wipe sticky palms over my jeans before hefting the rucksack on my back. "Time to go spelunking." I leave the ocean behind, heading toward the other side of the cliff.

The downward slope of the cliff is rocky with intermittent tangles of vegetation. By the number of rocks piled at the bottom, it's obvious how dangerous it would be to attempt going this way. I take a moment to look out over the small villages and towns separated by rolling green fields and trees. It's beautiful down there. No abandoned cars, dead animals, or signs of humans. A strange and unwelcome flutter invades my belly.

Grace and I find a narrow road curving along the side of the cliff and make our way down. Even this path is treacherous with sudden dips and loose stones. A small village with quaint clapboard houses is nestled at the bottom. It feels strange to walk through the empty, narrow streets. Grace runs ahead to spend some time in the front yard of a little red house surrounded by a white picket fence, relieving herself and rolling around in the grass. I stand awkwardly in the middle of the street and watch her scuttle from yard to yard.

When she runs behind a blue house with white shutters, I follow. The desire to keep my new friend in sight is a compulsion that won't be ignored. Though I've been on my own for weeks, the thought of being alone here in this place terrifies me.

A lovely garden takes up half of the back yard. Colorful blooms grow along each side of the fence, and the back is taken up by rows of vegetables. There's even an apple tree. Grace races across the grass and snatches an apple off the ground. She parades around with it in her mouth before settling down to eat it. I join her under the tree and polish an apple on my jeans.

I enjoy my second apple of the day until the weird fluttering starts up in my belly again. A strong breeze lifts my hair. The tinkle of wind chimes startles me, and Grace snatches up the other half of my apple when it falls from my hand.

The garden looks too perfect. Everything here looks too perfect. The grass is tall but not overgrown, and weeds haven't overtaken the flowers. The vegetables look well tended. A pair of dirty gardening gloves, a sun hat, and a basket rest on the back porch of the house. I half expect the owner to emerge from the back door, ready to work in her yard.

I climb the porch steps and peer in the window of a mudroom. The back door is unlocked.

"Grace, come."

Grace bounds over with her tail wagging, happy to have a task. When I open the door, she walks right into the house, taking the time to sniff everything.

The first floor consists of a kitchen, dining room, living room, and den. A narrow stairway leads upstairs. The atmosphere is peaceful and the house as well kept as the yard. There are no disturbances or signs that the previous occupants were ill.

An acoustic guitar resting against the wall in the corner of the den catches my eye. After staring at it for a while, my fingers itch too much to leave it untouched. I carry it into the living room and sit on the blue and cream plaid couch, giving the guitar a few test strums.

Grace pads in from the dining room with her head tilted.

"It's a guitar. I haven't played one in a while. Back home, I have my own."

Grace sits beside the coffee table and watches me expectantly.

"You like music, girl?"

I play the opening bars of "Hotel California" and close my eyes as the rich sound fills the air. Playing the guitar and singing has always been an escape for me. The lyrics flow from my lips, and for a few minutes, I forget everything as the music winds its way around and inside me. By the end of the song, a pleasant tingle has worked its way up my spine and over my scalp. My fingers buzz with a life of their own.

When I open my eyes, Grace still sits there, watching me intently.

The cabinets in the kitchen have plenty of canned goods. So does the adjoining pantry, including homemade jams and jellies. There's even an airtight container of dry dog food with a scoop in it.

I hunker at the kitchen table with a can of baked beans, and put a paper plate of dog food on the floor. Grace sniffs the kibble and chuffs, scratching at the pieces with her paw until they scatter across the floor. Once that's done, she sits at attention beside my chair with her gaze focused on my can of beans.

"Oh, Grace . . ." I shake my head. Then again, she probably hasn't eaten dog food in a long time. I give in and open a new can of beans.

Part of me feels like I should leave the house, but where do I have to go? With a potential storm rolling in, this would be a great place to hole up.

"What do you say, Grace? Should we stay here tonight?"

I'm talking to an empty room. I go in search of Grace and find her curled up on the couch, sound asleep.

"Guess I have my answer."

After using some bottled water to brush my teeth, I lay down on the couch beside Grace with my feet tucked under the warmth of her back end. Tonight I have a handmade afghan covering me instead of crackly Mylar. I sigh with contentment and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The morning is partly sunny with swollen purple clouds in the distance. Grace trots out to the yard to frolic and munch on apples. Everything seems all right until I decide to play the guitar.

I canvass every room on the ground floor, but the guitar is nowhere to be seen. My heart beats wildly, and I rush toward the back door. That's when I notice the dog food I assumed Grace had eaten during the night is neatly piled on the paper plate.

**~AMoG~**

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**A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Next chapter, you get to meet Edward.**


	3. Chapter 3 Sea Glass

**A/N: Thanks to my awesome readers for the welcome response to AMoG! I will now reward you with a glimpse of The Man. ;-)**

**Shards of sea glass, tank tops, and combat boots to my lovely and amusing prereaders, Keye, Sandy, and Aleea. A top to bottom lick from the Gracemeister to my awesome beta, SassySue (chayasara), for her unfailing skillz and speed. The woman spoils me, and I love it.**

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**Chapter 3**

**~Sea Glass~**

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Through the open back door, I spy Grace lying on her back in the grass, wiggling around and pawing at the air. The pulse in my temples hammers, creating a low roar in my ears.

Did I leave the door open? I didn't clean up the kibble, and unless Grace is a miracle dog, she didn't either.

My sneaker catches on the edge of the door frame, and one knee comes down hard on the planks of the porch. Pain radiates from my bruised kneecap, causing my eyes to water. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!"

Grace trots over and licks my nose. Her breath smells of apples, which makes me laugh through my tears. "You're going to turn into a McIntosh, you silly dog."

I stand on wobbly legs and notice the sky. The sun is hiding behind bruised-looking, purplish-gray clouds. The storm is still some distance away, but it's coming.

Turning back to the house, I hesitate in the doorway, realizing there's a deeper issue I need to face. _ I'm not alone here._ Someone doused my campfire, left an apple in my bag, took the guitar, and cleaned up the dog food Grace spilled on the kitchen floor. Not only that, but Grace didn't alert me at any of those times. Either she's a crap guard dog, or something really weird is going on. Maybe a bit of both. The actions of my stalker are an odd mix of benevolent and unkind.

I go inside and look things over with fresh eyes. There's a fine, even layer of dust coating everything except what I've touched. With a sense of trepidation, I climb the creaky, narrow wooden steps to the second floor. The bathroom, both bedrooms, and the closets are unoccupied and dust-covered, much like the first floor. My guess is nobody's been inside this house for weeks.

I poke through the dresser and closet in the master bedroom. It appears clothes and underthings are missing from the drawers, and a bunch of empty hangers line the pole in the closet. The rest of the room is tidy.

My next stop is the bathroom. There are no toothbrushes in the holder. A sweep of the medicine cabinet suggests toiletries are missing, and the garbage can is empty.

I leave the bathroom and sit on the edge of the neatly-made bed to contemplate this new information. The click of Grace's nails clatters against the wooden stairs, and she enters the room a few seconds later. She lays her dark muzzle on my thigh, her tongue sweeping out for one quick lick at my hand.

I pat her head and scratch behind her ears. "What's going on, Grace? It seems as if whoever lived here went on vacation or something. They took clothes and toiletries and left the house neat—even emptied the garbage. Those don't sound like the actions of people fearing for their lives, do they?"

Grace whines softly and lifts her head to look up at me with a slightly troubled look that says she wants to understand me but doesn't. I think she senses my disquiet.

"I think I need to check out a few more houses to see what they look like." Just saying the words causes my heart to thump against my ribs. Part of me already suspects what I'll find, but I have to know.

Grace remains at my side as I leave the house, never more than a few inches away. She doesn't bound across the yard to grab an apple. As we exit the back gate, she doesn't rush out to explore.

Heading for the sidewalk, I stand there and pan the street. All the lawns appear well manicured. There are no garbage cans set by the curb. The driveways are empty; the few cars visible are parked on the street.

I walk to the end of the block and into the middle of the intersection, turning slowly to observe each of the other streets. They're all the same.

Grace whimpers and hurries to catch up when I start with purposeful strides toward one of the houses. The front door is locked, but on a hunch, I check the back door. It's unlocked. Taking a deep breath, I go inside.

The interior is completely different from the little blue house. The décor is an Asian-inspired mix of crimson, black, and cream with lovely paintings gracing the walls of every room. A ceramic tea service rests on the kitchen counter, reminding me of the delicious tea I used to drink at Ming Ha's. The owner used to giggle behind her hand when she saw me coming and would say to the wait staff, "She drink lot of tea for little girl."

What this house has in common with the other is tidiness, a light coating of dust, and—when I finally find the courage to check the bedrooms—missing clothes and toiletries. There's plenty of food in the cabinets here, too. No garden or apple tree.

The next house and the one after that are much the same. Grace trots along beside me as I go from place to place, moving faster each time. My heart pounds until I fear it might explode.

What _is_ this? It's like the vanishing Mayan civilization, except these people knew they were leaving. Some houses are naturally neater than others, but that has more to do with the people who lived there and the life they lived BV—Before Virus as I've labeled the line of demarcation between the old world and the new.

I stalk back up Fortune Street—some kind of cosmic joke?—a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling up from inside. Grace yips and spins in a circle, still remaining close, and I pat her head, unsure which of us I'm trying to reassure.

A distantly familiar tightness squeezes over my chest, and I lose my breath. I fall to my knees on the front lawn of the blue house as dark panic oozes over me, filling every space, invading every neural pathway.

"Katie," I squeak out, the burning loss of my twin never as real to me as right now.

Katie. My identical twin. The darker, louder, braver one. The twin that didn't suffer panic attacks.

I topple to my back on the soft blades of grass, staring up at the threatening gray sky.

Ever since the age of ten, when our selfish mother left us with a well-meaning but inept father, Katie was the balm that soothed my panic away. She would swing down from the top bunk, hold my hand, and sandwich me between her body and the wall until I could breathe again. As we got older, Katie was always available by phone, no matter what she was doing. When she was dying from the virus, Katie snatched my cell phone and recorded what she called her Panic Opus—a personal message followed by the song she used to sing to me after mom left.

I've been careful to keep my cell phone charged, alternating batteries and using a solar charger. The thought of losing Katie forever is too much to bear.

My cell phone is inside the house in my rucksack, well out of my reach.

I draw in a whistling breath. In the past thirteen years, I've never had to work through a panic attack alone. I don't know how.

Grace barks sharply. Her wet nose nudges at my jaw.

I reach up and grasp the warm fur on her chest in one fist. I don't know what commands she's familiar with. "Grace . . . down."

Grace immediately drops to the grass and curls her body against mine, resting her head on my chest. I hug her around the neck and crush her against me. She whines lightly but doesn't struggle or push away.

Grace's warm body and obvious concern for me does the trick. The icy crush of panic ebbs away a little at a time until I can breathe again. The feeling of foreboding still clings to me, a desolate shroud, but my chest fills with air over and over.

When I'm finally able to curl up to a seated position, Grace barks happily and dances around me in circles before darting forward to lick my face from bottom to top.

"Graaace!" I laugh and hold my hands up. She keeps trying to reach my face through my fingers.

On my way back inside, I realize the large propane tank on the side of the house might still power the stove. Excitement at the thought of hot food pushes me to move faster. Twenty minutes later, a saucepan of soup is bubbling away on the stove.

I find a few cloths under the sink, dancing my way around the kitchen and dusting while the soup is heating. I start singing, too. A buoyant joy bubbles over, and though I recognize the signs of my post-panic-attack mania, I ignore it. There's nobody to talk me down or even notice or care, so why should I?

I waltz around the kitchen with a broom and even open a can of beans for Grace. After setting the table with a real ceramic bowl, metal silverware, and a vase with a fake flower, I sit down to my first civilized meal since leaving home. "Grace, dinner!"

The soup is delicious. Curls of chicken-scented vapor awaken my senses, and I close my eyes as I dip my spoon over and over. For a moment, I almost forget.

The lack of canine sounds pulls me from the fantasy. I open my eyes. The steaming plate of beans sits on the floor untouched.

"Grace?"

The back door is open, but I don't see Grace. I get up from the table and lean against the doorframe, which gives me a panoramic view of the backyard, but my furry buddy isn't there. My good mood is forgotten. Grace hasn't been out of my sight since we found one another. The sky is much darker and more threatening now with rumbles of thunder in the distance.

I rush off the porch and run around the side of the house, calling her name with a shrill and hysterical edge to my voice. As I round the corner of the house, something solid knocks the wind out of me, and I land on my backside in the grass. "Ooph!"

Parked in front of me is a pair of grungy, black combat boots. Tucked into the boots, is a pair of rust-hued jeans belted by thick, studded leather, followed by a white ribbed tank. Well-defined, tattooed arms are crossed in front of an impressively broad chest. His strong, scruff-covered jaw twitches, and his mouth presses into a straight line that exudes disapproval as he looks down on me with transparent, blue-green eyes that remind me of sea glass.

My mouth gapes. I fight to draw deep breaths, my gut still smarting along with my butt.

"You have a death wish?" he asks in a growly voice.

I shake my head, never taking my eyes off his.

"I _know_ you're not mute. Shit . . . could hear you singing and screaming for that dog halfway across town!" He shakes his head and glares at me with disgust.

He moves abruptly, bending his tall body to reach for me. I flinch, holding my arms up in front of me.

"Take my hand." His large hand grips my forearm like a vise, and he hauls me to my feet as if I weigh nothing.

I struggle to pull away, but he stalks toward the backyard, pulling me along with him. "Stupid broad," he mutters.

"What . . . did you . . . call me?" I ask breathlessly, appalled by his rudeness.

He laughs abruptly. "For that, you find your voice!"

I realize he's heading for the house to do God-knows-what to me. "Grace! _Grace!_"

He drags me onto the porch and swings me around, slamming me up against the wall and pressing a hand over my mouth. "Shh!"

I stare up at him with wide eyes and try to fight back tears.

"No more screeching, okay? I'm gonna take my hand away."

I nod. After all, who's going to hear me?

He pulls his hand off my mouth and kicks the metal milk can off the porch, sending it flying onto the lawn with an echoing clang. His large hands grip his head, scrubbing over buzz-cut hair before he towers over me. "Do you want that dog to die?"

Anger rips through me, and I forget about being scared. I take a step forward and glare up into those sea-glass eyes of his. "Are you threatening to kill my dog?"

His expression morphs to one of confusion and hurt, and for a moment, I see underneath his façade. "Are you crazy?"

"Me? You're the one who attacked me and threatened my dog!" Pieces start clicking into place. "Wait, wait . . . that was you all those times, wasn't it? You put out my fire, stole my guitar, and . . . and cleaned up the dog food on the kitchen floor?" I tilt my head, confused.

"Don't forget the apple I left in your bag, sweetheart."

"But that was a nice thing to do."

He laces both hands over the back of his neck and looks up at the sky. "Oh my God. _Everything_ I did for you was nice."

"Yeah, letting someone freeze to death by putting their fire out—what a gentleman. Oh, and let's not forget the guitar!"

"You unbelievable—"

The rest of his words, which I'm sure would burn my ears, are lost by a blinding flash followed by a crack of thunder that shakes the ground. Fat raindrops slash through the air, coming faster and harder by the second. He grabs my arm and tugs me into the house, shutting the door.

"Wait! Grace is still out there!" I yank open the door and stalk onto the porch. When I open my mouth to yell for her again, he slaps a hand over it.

"Don't. There's a better way to call the dog."

I turn and watch him pull a leather cord out of his tank top. He brings the object dangling on the end to his lips and blows. No sound comes out, and I realize it's a dog whistle. He blows again and looks into the gathering dark and pelting rain expectantly.

More thunder rolls, long and grumbling. A short bark sounds between claps. Grace barrels up the steps to the porch and straight over to the intruder. She doesn't bite him or growl; she stands up on two legs with her paws on his chest and licks his face when he leans his head down. The jerk actually smiles and scratches my dog behind the ears.

"Who's a good girl?" Grace lands back on all-fours and butts her nose into his hip. "You don't miss a trick, Nudge, do ya?" He slides two fingers into his pocket and tugs out a piece of jerky, sinking into a crouch and feeding it to Grace.

I cross my arms and lift a brow. "Nudge?"

Sea-glass eyes gazes up at me with a poorly concealed smirk. "I concede to you, China. Grace is a much better name for her."

"My name's not China." I point at the dog. "Her name is Grace. She's _mine_."

"Can we talk about this inside maybe?" He stands to his full height, reminding me how much bigger and stronger he is than I am.

I chew my lip, wondering what to do. Grace seems to know and like him; she did come when he blew the dog whistle. I nod my head, deciding to trust Grace's instincts.

As soon as the door is open, Grace bolts for the now-cool bowl of beans and starts chowing down.

Sea-glass eyes saunters into the kitchen and looks around. "You dusted, swept, and used the stove?" He manages to sound outraged by this.

"Yes. Would you like a bowl of chicken noodle?"

He glances over at me sharply. One hand presses against his flat stomach, and he seems undecided, though he's clearly hungry.

"I won't poison you." _At least not today._

He nods and pulls out a chair, sitting in it and leaning back against the wall. Tilting his head, he watches through narrowed eyes as I ladle up a bowl of soup and place it in front of him then proceeds to spoon it into his mouth faster than I've ever seen anyone eat.

I rest my butt against the sink and watch this stranger with the sea-glass eyes suck down another bowl of soup. My gaze wanders over his pumped up arms and the thick, tattooed vines winding over them. Heart-shaped roses in various stages of bloom and decline, some with plump, ruby drops of blood oozing from their drooping heads, cling to the vines.

"See something you like, China?" He rests his head against the wall, watching me, an inscrutable expression on his ruggedly handsome face.

I turn away, my face burning. Then I do what comes naturally when I'm uncomfortable—I put him on the defensive. "So . . . how long do you plan on stalking and sabotaging me? Isn't this town big enough for the both of us?"

**~AMoG~**

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**A/N: A bit more background on Bella with more to come as the story unfolds. Would love to get your first reaction to Edward. He's a jerk, but there's more to him than meets the untrained eye. Grace seems to trust him . . .**

**See you in two weeks!**

**Follow me on Twitter: at SaritaDreaming or at SarahAisling**

**Fanfiction blog: saritadreaming .word press .c o m (copy, paste, and remove spaces)  
**


	4. Chapter 4 Unwelcome

**A/N: Thanks to all of _you_, awesome readers, for the fantastic response to AMoG! Some really good guesses going on, but my goal is to keep that air of mystery for a bit longer. *insert evil grin* **

_**Boots and pants and boots and tats and boots and tanks**_** . . . to my awesome prereaders, Keye, Sandy, and Aleea. *wink, wink* Edward reciting grammatically correct sentences to my spectacular beta, SassySue (chayasara), just to keep her blood boiling.**

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**Chapter 4**

**~Unwelcome~**

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"So . . . how long do you plan on stalking and sabotaging me? Isn't this town big enough for the both of us?" I face the window, watching rivulets of rain zipping around in random patterns as the wind buffets the house. Perhaps it's not wise to turn my back on Mr. Ripped and Tattooed, but he's had plenty of opportunities to hurt me if he wanted to.

"Stalking and sabotaging? Seriously?" His tone is incredulous.

I grip the edge of the counter and fight against a wave of panic as another blast of thunder rattles the windows. "Are the storms always this bad around here?"

He huffs, a sound that is half laugh, half disgust. "Are you scared?"

I whirl around and glare at his shadowy form in the dim room. "Are you always such a jerk?"

"Deflection."

"What?"

"You deflect when things get sticky."

It's hard to make out his face in the blue-gray gloom. Soon we'll be in complete darkness. I turn away again and open a cabinet, taking out a jar candle and lighter I noticed earlier. The dusty wick crackles and flares to life, bathing most of the kitchen with a golden glow.

When I turn around, he's gone.

I pan the room, my eyes straining to unscramble objects in the darkness beyond the circle of light thrown by the candle. Grace's nails click on the kitchen floor beside me. She whines softly and nestles her wet nose against my palm. I crouch down and ruffle her fur, which earns me one of her full-face licks. A delighted giggle bubbles up, and I can't hold it back.

"Glad you're having a fan-fucking-tastic time in there, China. Mind pulling the damn shade down and closing the curtains?" His derisive voice drifts in from the living room.

I rise to my feet and yank the shade down, tugging the curtains shut with a vicious snap; then I whirl around and offer my best angry face to the darkness. "Happy? And for the last damn time, my name's not China! It's Bella."

"Bella." His voice is soft and close, startling me.

I fight not to react and give him something else to make fun of me for as his form morphs out of the dark. The top of my head only reaches his chest, forcing me to look up at him. Those fascinating eyes of his gleam in the candlelight, but I can't tell what mood he's in this time.

He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his fingers grazing my cheek. "Bella." He tilts his head and says my name as if he's tasting it. His gaze roams over my face, considering me, and then he nods. "I can see it."

A foreign sensation flutters in my chest. He's too near. I haven't felt the touch of another human being since Katie was dying, and with the counter digging into my back, there's nowhere to go. "Um . . ." I push his hand away. "What can you see?"

"The name—it suits you." His voice is still soft, not the harsh growl from earlier. The way he's looking down at me causes that strange flutter again.

I don't ask why he approves of my name, and I ignore the openly intense gaze roaming my features as if I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Do _you_ have a name . . . or should I just keep calling you jerk?"

A slow smile spreads across his face, amusement glinting in his eyes. "You can call me Max."

"Max." I tap an index finger against my lip while looking him up and down. For some reason, I don't believe him. "Doesn't quite fit you."

"No?" His smile never falters, but there's something disquieting in his eyes.

"No." I clear my throat, growing uncomfortable with his close proximity. "Um, you're in my personal space . . . Max."

Max steps back with his hands raised in front of him. "My bad."

Grace inserts herself in the space between us and presses against my legs. I feel safer with her there.

Max crouches down and rubs Grace's ears. "You're a good girl, Nudge. Don't let your guard down. She's going to need all the help she can get."

I bristle. "I've survived this long all on my own."

His hands freeze mid-rub, and he trains those strange eyes on me. It's disconcerting to look down at him and still feel intimidated. I'm grateful Grace provides a buffer when he stands again, wiping his large palms on his jeans.

"Tell me . . . where are you from?" he asks.

"Maine."

"How did you end up here?"

That's a loaded question. I don't know where _here_ is, and how I arrived is a mystery as well. More thunder crashes, and the howling wind beats at the house. I suck in a breath and look around. The curtains are drawn across the living room windows, blocking my view of the storm. The flickering candlelight lends a coziness to the room, and I'm thankful we have shelter from the storm.

"I . . . um . . . don't know."

"You don't know."

"Max, I don't even know where we are." It's hard for me to admit this to a relative stranger, especially one I remain unsure of. He's definitely an enigma, doing things that on the surface seem cruel while claiming they're helpful.

Max nods. "It makes a strange sort of sense."

"It does?"

"When I noticed you wandering around the cliffs, you seemed out of it. Nudge planted herself by your side and refused to leave. Then you lit the fire, and I had to come take care of it."

A sinking feeling twists in my belly. "Is Grace your dog?" I look into his eyes and pray he says no. How would I go on without her?

Max gazes down at Grace, an affectionate smile on his face. "This lovely girl has been with me for a while, but clearly she's made her choice."

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. "Thank you. She means a lot to me."

"I'd love to take credit, but she has a mind of her own. Couldn't force her away from you that first night, and I suspect I couldn't now." Max lifts the leather cord with the dog whistle over his head and hands it to me. "Take this. You can use it to call her without announcing your presence to everyone for miles."

I accept the whistle and hang it around my neck. "Thanks."

Grace, perhaps sensing the change in both of our demeanors, wanders over to the back door and scratches at it, looking up at me expectantly.

"Should I let her out in this?"

"Unless you want a puddle in the kitchen—or something worse." Max laughs. It's a nice sound, and for the first time, he seems more relaxed. "Don't worry. She won't go far, and she'll come back as soon as she's done."

When I open the door, Grace darts out into the darkness of the yard. The storm is subsiding, reduced to a strong wind with gentle rain pattering against the grass and leaves. Since it's a covered porch, I step outside to wait for Grace. I'm not comfortable being alone in the house with Max. Maybe he's not the complete jerk I thought he was, but I still question his motives and intentions.

The wind whips my hair around, and I pull the edges of my hoodie together, crossing my arms to hold it in place. The air smells clean and fresh. I've always loved the scent of the outdoors when it rains. It's also been a while since I smelled air untainted by the stench of death and decay. A shiver works its way up my spine, and I hug myself tighter.

How _did_ I end up here? Katie and I were the last ones left of our clan; everyone else had already died, and my dad had gone into the station the week before and had never come home. The day before Katie died, she seemed a bit stronger and asked to go out in the yard. We sat in the grass and blew dandelion fluff together, making wishes that would never come true.

Katie had stared into space for a while, chewing on her bottom lip. The lip chewing was an affectation we had in common, especially when in deep thought. I knew not to disturb her when she was like that, so I waited patiently, shredding the cottony fluff between my fingers.

When she was ready to talk, Katie laid her hand on my arm. I felt the heat radiating off her; in my mind, I pictured ripples of heat hovering over hot pavement.

"I'm not going to make it, Ro."

"Kiki—"

"Shut up." Katie glared at me, her tongue snaking out to play with her lip ring—a habitual, nervous habit. "Everyone else is gone. You don't show any signs of the virus, so I'm going to assume you're one of the cursed."

"Cursed?"

Her hand tightened on my arm until it was painful. "Whatever is left . . . out there . . . it'll be ugly. We've watched those zombie shows and end-of-the-world movies. That's the new reality. Maybe there aren't any flesh-eating creatures, but you can bet your ass people will turn mean. The power will go out soon, and there won't be any more food deliveries." She had a coughing fit and took several gasping breaths before she could continue. "I don't mind dying—really don't want to live in a such a shit world—but what bothers me is leaving you behind."

Katie started crying then, big, fat tears that kept streaming, something I'd only seen her do a handful of times in twenty-three years.. She didn't try to wipe them away but let them drip down her chin and over her neck, wetting her shirt.

I shook my head. "We're twins—we share the same DNA. I'm sure it's only a matter of time before I get sick."

Katie rolled her eyes. "You know that's not true. For whatever reason, you've been chosen to survive." She coughed again, long and hacking, then wiped her dripping nose on her sleeve. "We need to go over some things that might help you live longer. For one, you should head to Uncle Jack's cabin. It's rural up that way, and he's got a huge garden."

"Don't you think I'd be better off somewhere warmer? How will I make it through the winter?"

"Eventually, but what if Uncle Jack or some of his friends are still alive? He's one of those conspiracy theory nuts, lives off the grid. Maybe we should have listened to him when he spewed wild scenarios."

I threw a dandelion stem at her. "He's a crazy old coot! He poked, prodded, and looked me over like he was considering purchasing a head of livestock last time we saw him! I'm surprised he didn't force my mouth open to check my teeth."

The two of us surged into peals of laughter. When it dried up, Katie coughed for five minutes straight before she regained control of her breathing.

It was the last laugh we ever shared.

After Katie was gone, and I found the courage to bury her in the backyard, I did take her advice and head for Uncle Jack's cabin. The power was still on then, but I couldn't bear to stay there when everyone I'd ever loved was dead.

A sob wrenches out of me. I look into the darkness, and listen to the light tap of rain. The storm is almost over, but my own inner hurricane is just beginning.

"Hey, you all right?" Max touches my shoulder, and when I glance up at him, he almost seems concerned.

I pray he mistakes my tears for rain. "Yeah, just waiting for Grace to come back."

He looks at me strangely. "She's _been_ back. Pushed the door open and went inside a while ago."

I close my eyes and feel my face heat up. "Sorry. Guess I was lost in thought."

"You coming in? We need to talk before I go."

_Go? Go where?_ I nod. "Sure. Right behind you."

The kitchen seems overly bright after being out in the dark. I notice a small puddle with a trail of wetness leading across the floor toward the living room and lean through the archway to confirm that Grace is curled in a ball on the couch, fast asleep. Part of me worries about her getting the couch wet, but I realize how silly that is in this new reality.

Max sits in the same chair he did earlier. This time he's not leaning against the wall and instead rests his muscular forearms on the table. His grim expression sends butterflies somersaulting through my belly.

I take the seat across from him, watching candlelight flicker over the angular planes of his face. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his mouth and nose, then rakes his fingers back, starting mid-forehead as if he expects there to be hair in his eyes. It would almost be funny if he didn't look so serious.

"Listen, China . . . you need to leave here as soon as possible."

"What? No!" I expected he might say many things at this strange meeting: _Keep out of my way. I'll stay on my side of town, and you stay on yours. Don't make noise. I want my dog back. _What I didn't expect was expulsion from what seems like a haven in an otherwise sick, decaying world.

Max slams both palms down on the table. "Yes. This place isn't for you."

"But it's for you?" I blink against the sting of tears. I will not cry in front of this Neanderthal. How dare he try to dictate where I can live!

Max nods. "At least for the time being. You should supply up, take Grace, and get on the road as soon as possible." When he mentions Grace—the first time he's called her by the name I gave her—he glances toward her sleeping form, looking almost sad. "She'll be a good early-warning system and will protect you with her life."

"And if I say no?"

Max stands abruptly, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor. He glares down at me, a muscle in his jaw twitching beneath the reddish-brown scruff. "Nobody says no to me." He looks and sounds dangerous, but there's something in his eyes that's raw and determined, almost as if he_ needs_ me to leave.

"If you want to talk to me, sit down."

"What?" he huffs with outraged confusion. "I'm sorry, did you think this was up for discussion?"

I join him in standing, though he still towers over me, and place my hands on my hips. "I'm sorry, I must have missed the part of this one-way conversation where you stated why exactly I should give a shit _what_ you think!" Despite the anger sparking in his eyes, I refuse to be the first to look away.

Max throws his head back and laughs, though this time it's not the pleasant sound from before. "You're a piece of work. You've got balls—have to give you that." He shakes his head, still laughing. "So, pack it up, and try not to make too much noise while doing it. Get a good night's sleep and head out in the morning." Max makes his way toward the door, still shaking his head.

What happened to the guy who seemed concerned for me a short while ago and claimed the things he'd done were to help me? The thought of going back into the fray, where the cloying scent of death lingered and bodies clogged up almost every available place of shelter was abhorrent and sent a powerful wave of nausea through me.

"I'm not going anywhere." My voice is low and firm.

He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, giving me a healthy view of his broad shoulders, lean-muscled back, and tapered waist. My gaze rakes over his tension-filled form, and I realize he's not naturally bulky; it took a lot of work to build up that physique—significantly more time than the world has been in chaos.

Max lowers his head and scoffs. "Yeah, you are. One way or another, you'll be gone by the end of the week." Then he wrenches the door open and walks out.

**~AMoG~**

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**A/N: Just to clear up the inevitable questions . . . Max is Edward, Edward is Max, and you'll find out later about that nickname and the one he's chosen for Bella. Ready to toss out those theories? Go!**

**Just a reminder—if you review as a guest or have PMs disabled, I can't respond to your lovely comments.**

**See you in two weeks!**

**Follow me on Twitter: at SaritaDreaming or at SarahAisling**

**Fanfiction blog: saritadreaming dot word press dot com**


	5. Chapter 5 There are Worse Things

**A/N: Hello, awesome readers! I'm loving your reviews and theories and respond to as many as possible. If you post as a guest or have PMs turned off, I can't answer your lovely words.**

**A few startled starts to my awesome prereaders, Keye, Sandy, and Aleea, for their invaluable feedback and friendship. Huge thanks to my beta, SassySue (chayasara), for smoothing out my rough spots.**

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**Chapter 5**

**~There are Worse Things~**

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I buried Katie in the predawn gloom of a frigid April morning. My heavy breaths created plumes of vapor in the cool, damp air, yet I roasted in my loose T-shirt and leggings. Sometimes in my dreams, I still hear the shovel digging into fresh earth and the soft _whump_ as dirt piled up beside the ever-growing hole between Katie's favorite beech trees. I thought my arms would fall off, the muscles quivering and burning with the effort, but I kept on in the way only the obsessed do. I owed this to my twin, and I would not stop until she was at rest.

After patting the dirt over her grave one final time, I collapsed against the smooth, grayish bark of the nearest tree and sobbed, long and hard. Three similar mounds of dirt lay beyond the beech trees: Mike, my fiancé; Mamie, my grandma; and Dover, our beloved dog. Katie had been alive to help me bury them. This was so much worse.

My dad had been gone well over a week by the time I buried Katie, and I assumed he died a hero's death. It's what he would have wanted.

As I sat there with the hardness of the tree irritating my sweat-soaked back through my T-shirt, the gravity of the situation crushed me in an avalanche of reality. I was alone in the world. Other than crazy Uncle Jack, the only possible relation I had left was the mother who'd abandoned me at the age of ten.

I saw my mother about three weeks before the epidemic started. She'd called when our dad was at work, begging our forgiveness, wanting Katie and me to come and visit her in Georgia. She'd snot-sobbed into the phone, blathering on about how young and stupid she was back then and what a mistake it had been to leave us. I softened, agreeing to visit. Katie had refused to even get on the phone, offering up a double bird salute before stalking out of the house.

I tried to convince Katie to come with me, but my sister was stubborn.

"She didn't give a shit about me when I was ten . . . I don't give a fuck about her when she's sorry. Why, so she can smooth out the wrinkles in her conscience? I'd love to be that big, rippling wrinkle that just won't go away." Katie had arranged her dark-lipsticked mouth into a teeth-baring smile, and I knew the discussion was over.

I turned my face until my cheek rubbed against the ashy bark of the beech tree, the scent of freshly turned earth all around me. I couldn't stay, not with everyone gone. The power was still on, but phone service had been out for two weeks. Chances were my mother was dead, too.

My lids fluttered closed, bone-weary fatigue making them too heavy to hold open. In that moment, I decided to follow Katie's advice and head further north to Uncle Jack's. He might be dead, too, but he did have a great setup.

I fell asleep against the tree, waking when the sun kissed my skin. Heading into the house, I took a long, hot shower—maybe my last for a while—and headed downtown to Jace's Camping World. The store was closed, but Mike used to work there, so I'd snatched his key ring before leaving home. I let myself in the back door and moved stealthily through the store with a flashlight, helping myself to essentials Katie had suggested before she died.

"_. . . chlorine tablets to purify water, a Mylar blanket. Oh! Don't forget an emergency tube tent—they keep you warm even in subarctic temps. Rope, a fold-up fishing rod. Weapons, too. And . . ."_

The rucksack I picked out was heavy with gear when I left. Out in the car, I spread a map on my lap and plotted a route from Rockland to Uncle Jack's cabin in Cooper. I marked main roads in red and secondary roads in blue; I anticipated problems near well-populated areas and wanted to have alternate routes in place.

The trip was about a hundred and fifty miles and proved to be tricky. I had to switch cars three times, sometimes hiking overland several miles before finding a suitably clear road to travel. My father may have been an officer of the law, but he made sure his daughters had certain skills, such as hot-wiring cars.

I didn't see many people; most of them were inside their homes in varying stages of the virus or had passed out and died in their cars on their way to who-knew-where. After some guy with red-rimmed eyes tried to strangle me for being healthy, I pretended to be sick like everyone else.

Belfast was a haven of dead bodies, both human and canine. I followed the highway on foot, planning to find myself another ride at the edge of town, but the sight of the bridge crossing over the Passagassawakeag River stopped me. A snarl of cars, some of them trapped on the median, clogged the bridge. Three quarters of the way over, someone had piled up huge metal garbage dumpsters, effectively blocking passage to or from Belfast.

After staring at the disturbing visual for a while, I pulled out my map to find an alternate route. If I attempted to swim the river, all my gear would be waterlogged. I took a chance on the footbridge and found it blocked, too. Eventually, I came across a canoe resting by the edge of the riverbank and waited until dusk before setting out, not knowing what I would find when I reached the opposite shore.

Whoever had tried to keep others from crossing the river was long gone. Silence greeted me on the other side of the water along with the usual signs of death. On the outskirts of town, I found a small car with half a tank of gas. I hot-wired it and managed to cross the Penobscot River without incident.

Most nights, I slept in whatever car I was driving. I'd conceal it beneath a copse of trees or pull it into an abandoned barn. A trip that should have taken a couple of hours, took days.

When I finally reached Cooper, I hid the little blue car I was driving and hiked inland through dense trees and over rolling hills until I reached the edge of Uncle Jack's property. I climbed up a tree and pulled out my binoculars. The cabin was actually more of a shack. The grass was high, waving lazily in the breeze. A side wall had partially caved in, and there were scorch marks on the roof. Lightning strike? Whatever happened, the place didn't look like it had been occupied for some time.

I climbed down from my perch and hiked across the field to the cabin. A couple of shotguns rested against the undamaged side. The acrid scent of fresh smoke filled my nostrils. When I peeked around the corner of the house, I noticed a smoldering campfire with ribbons of grayish smoke curling lazily in the air. A metal coffee pot lay on its side in the tamped down grass along with two pairs of men's socks and boots.

A bloodcurdling scream cut the air, followed by splashing.

"Yellow belly!"

"It's fucking cold, loser!"

The creek. They were in the water, washing up.

A thump from inside the ruined cabin startled me. I picked my way around back and knelt on a barrel, peering through the dirt-streaked glass. A great deal of debris and broken furniture littered the floor along the damaged side. A woman was trussed up on the couch, a gag tied firmly over her mouth. My heart raced, and I backed off the barrel, hitting the ground hard.

More hollering came from the direction of the creek.

My first thought was of freeing the woman, but there was no time. The men were heading back, and I ran the other way, feeling like a coward.

Out back, I raided Uncle Jack's overgrown garden. Most of the good stuff had already been picked over, probably by those guys. The sun faded and angry clouds rolled in on a brisk wind as I took bites of an overripe pepper. I don't remember if it had any flavor; the tied- up woman's frightened eyes haunted me.

I climbed a tree and nestled into a fork of branches covered by a thick canopy of leaves and hung my rucksack from a broken-off stub that resembled a hook. When the storm began, I dug a waterproof poncho out of my bag. Fat drops of rain tapped against the leaves and soon turned to a driving downpour that parted my cover and pelted me. Eventually, I slipped into a fitful sleep.

I awoke to the sound of two men talking about trapping animals. They also mentioned finding lumber to fix the cabin and lamented the loss of "their" woman. She'd apparently tried to escape again and drowned in the creek when they decided to teach her not to run.

Terrified the men would discover me, I spent another day up in that tree. When night fell, I heard their drunken voices floating on the air. I waited until they were quiet and only night-sounds surrounded me before I shimmied down the tree. I didn't dare start the car, so I left it behind and traveled slowly on foot through the darkness, stopping to rest every so often. The morning dawned cloudless and hazy. I came upon a field of sunflowers, their heavy, sunny heads swaying in the gentle breeze. I collapsed amongst their regal stalks and cried. How could the world be ending when there was such innocent beauty to be found?

The body aches and fevers came over me later that day, and my next truly coherent memory was of waking up on top of the cliff by the sea with Grace watching over me.

**~AMoG~**

I sit huddled on the floor of the mudroom, yanking on fistfuls of my hair and muttering the occasional curse. Max made his dramatic exit a while ago, leaving me to stew. I may not remember how I arrived on the cliff, but the thought of leaving this strange town causes bile to rise in my throat. I know what's waiting out there, and it can only be worse now than what I ran from in Cooper.

_Screw you, Max!_ I have no intention of leaving here without a fight.

I gather up some canned goods, powered milk, and protein bars from the pantry then go out to the yard. Faint light seeps along the edge of the horizon, signaling the beginning of a new day. I scan the houses around me, looking for a good vantage point. The house behind this one has second floor windows that should offer a decent view of the backyard, porch, and back door. I take care to walk around the block, rather than jumping the fence or tromping through neighboring yards. No sense in announcing my location.

Grace trots beside me, the ultimate loyal companion. She doesn't question my lead, just follows it. I try to ignore the emptiness around us as we make our way along the sidewalk to the cream-colored house and enter the backyard. Predictably, the rear door is unlocked. I shine a flashlight around inside; the house is as dusty and undisturbed as any of the others I've inspected. I make my way to the second floor, somewhat numb to the condition of the houses in this town by now.

The apple tree hampers my view from the master bedroom, so I move on to the room next door. I'm not expecting the pale pink walls, canopy bed draped in white eyelet, or toys and games. A child's room. Where is this little girl now? I close my eyes and fight off nausea as I struggle to put aside depressing thoughts.

I cross the room slowly, looking down at the hardwood floor until I reach the window and part the white eyelet curtains. The view of the little blue house is perfect and unobstructed from here.

Going back downstairs, I find a beat-up Radio Flyer wagon in the backyard and pull it behind me back to the blue house. Thankfully, it glides along silently. I fill the wagon with more supplies and wheel it back to the cream-colored house. As I pass the front porch, I notice a sign hanging by the entrance: _The Ellers: John, Tammy, and Brittney_

Tears prick my eyes, maybe because knowing their names makes them more real to me.

The Ellers' pantry has a trap door in the floor. Hesitantly, I yank on the metal ring and lift the linoleum-covered plank, which sticks for a moment before creaking loudly as it gives way. Crouching on the edge, I shine the beam of the flashlight around. A set of rickety wooden stairs leads down to a packed-dirt root cellar.

Wrapping the strap of the flashlight around my wrist and placing a piece of wood on the lip of the opening to keep the door from completely closing—because this reminds me too much of a horror movie, and I have no intention of being trapped in some dank hidey hole—I descend the stairs slowly.

A three-legged table rests against one wall and empty shelves line the other three. Besides two vertical supports, there's nothing else down here. It's a perfect place to hide all my stuff.

A soft whine comes from above me. Grace sniffles at the edge of the trap door, staring at me with curiosity. After I make several trips up and down the creaky stairs, she finally flops down on the floor. Her dark eyes track me as I move about, each eyebrow lifting and lowering independently. When this causes me to giggle, Grace lifts her head and chuffs, almost as if scolding me. I pat her on the head and keep moving.

By mid-afternoon, everything is packed away in the root cellar, and a throw rug is glued to the top of the trap door. If I have to hide, nobody will know I'm here. By nobody, I suppose I mean Max.

Returning to the blue house, I use some bottled water to wash in the bathroom upstairs. I've already disturbed things here, so why not?

In the soft, filtered light shining through the window, I gaze at my gaunt face in the mirror. I run the pads of my fingers along my angular cheekbones and the shadowed hollows beneath them. It's obvious by the fit of my clothing that I've lost weight, but coming face to face with myself for the first time in weeks is jarring. I hate the fear in my eyes. My dark hair is kind of greasy and hangs in lank ropes that drape over my bony shoulders.

I wash my hair. I don't know when things will be this easy again, and if I'm truthful, I'm a bit nutty about my hair being clean. Afterward, I comb through all the tangles and am forced to cut a few snarls out with a scissor. When I'm done, I look in the mirror again. My combed, wet hair frames my too-thin face and dark-circled, owlish eyes.

Burning tears begin to flow. The wrong twin survived. I don't think I'm up for this.

Two sharp cracks split the air outside.

Rubbing my dripping face with my sleeve, I rush into the master bedroom. Grace is already there with her paws on the windowsill. She bares her teeth, a slow, deep growl rumbling in her chest.

My heart hammers as I lean in next to her and gaze out the window, looking for movement, anything. The sun is shining. A slight breeze blows. No disturbances. From up here, I can see rows of houses one direction and rolling fields leading to woods in another.

The sound doesn't repeat, but I know what it was. Gunfire. Two shots. Could be a survivor hunting out in the woods. Could be trouble.

I clean up the bathroom and grab my bag, heading for the back door. The yard is undisturbed, so I peer around the side of the house where Max first knocked me on my duff. All clear.

This time, Grace and I go around the block in the other direction. I see nothing alarming, and Grace seems content.

My heart is still beating fast after I close the Ellers' door and lock it behind me. I rest my forehead against the cool wood and take deep breaths, trying to calm the pulsing in my temples.

"Finally ready to take shit seriously, China?"

I shriek, bumping my head against the doorjamb. "Ow!" I turn, and Max is leaning against the doorway to the living room, smirking. I have the urge to throw something at him. "Stalker," I accuse.

He crosses his massive arms. Today he's wearing camouflage pants and a tight, army green T-shirt. "I admit I've been watching you today. What I can't figure out is where you stored all that shit."

It's my turn to smirk. "Stump the chump."

Max's smirk slips a little, and his eyes harden. "You didn't stump me. I wanted to see what you were up to, but time is running out."

I realize Grace hasn't greeted Max. She's still poised an inch away from my leg. So close I can feel the comforting heat of her.

I cross my arms, mimicking Max's stance. "You keep talking about making me leave town and time running out . . . Why don't you just tell me what the fuck is going on here?"

"Need to know basis."

"This_ is '_need to know,' Max. If you haven't noticed, I'm not leaving."

"You _should_ leave. Take Grace and go before . . ." His jaw tightens, and he looks away.

"Before what?" I stand taller and take a step forward, pointing at him. "Are you threatening me?"

Max's eyes widen slightly, and he shakes his head. "No. If I wanted to hurt you, I've had plenty of opportunity, Bella."

The use of my given name is disarming—probably the result he was going for. I shrug my shoulders and fling my arms up. "Then, what? You don't like my face, the way I smell?"

Max starts pacing around the living room with his hands cupping the back of his neck. "Did you hear anything a while ago?"

"You mean the gunshots?"

He halts his pacing and looks over at me. "Caught that, huh?"

I nod. I'm quite familiar with guns, though I'm not about to tell him that.

"Look, can we sit for a minute and . . . talk?" He gestures to the brown leather couch.

"I guess." I wait for him to sit, then I perch on the arm at the opposite end. This brings us almost eye to eye.

Grace finally draws closer to Max, but stops a foot away and looks to me for permission.

"It's okay, girl."

With a happy yip, Grace launches herself at Max, landing on his lap and pinning him against the back of the couch. He laughs and ruffles Grace's fur, accepting her special full-face licks with great pleasure.

I watch Max closely. He's so unguarded in this moment, chuckling, the smile going all the way to the depths of those sea-glass eyes. There's something almost carefree about him.

But then he sees me watching, and the shutters come down again. He doesn't reject Grace, but he becomes more reserved. "Okay, okay. Down, girl." Max looks down at his hands as if he's weighing something. When he speaks, he stares at the floor. "Look, I don't wish you any harm, but you can't stay here. There's shit you obviously don't know and don't need to if you're not staying."

"Max, are you aware of what's out there?" My shoulders slump, and now it's me looking at the floor to hide my tear-filled eyes.

"Of course I know." Max's voice is much softer, almost haunted. "Believe me when I say you'd be better off out there."

I close my eyes and shake my head. A few tears escape, but I don't think he can see.

"Listen, Bella . . ."

Max's words are interrupted by a loud horn. It startles me, and I slip off the arm of the couch and land sideways on the slick leather cushions.

Grace growls.

"What the hell?"

The horn blares again, reminding me of the one our town used for an emergency signal.

"_Attention, survivors! You don't have to be out on your own anymore. We have food, clothing, supplies, power, and best of all—other survivors. All are welcome."_

"Oh my God, Max!" I scramble off the couch and run for the front door when the message starts broadcasting again. "Here! We're here!"

Max leans forward and loops an arm around my waist as I pass him, pulling me down on his lap. I struggle to get up, slapping and clawing at the tattooed arm holding me in place.

"Let me go!"

He presses a hand over my mouth and brings his lips close to my ear. "Shh . . . Be quiet!"

There's a sense of urgency in his tone that causes me to stop fighting. I relax slightly, my back coming in contact with his chest. He's breathing hard, the warmth huffing across my cheek.

"I'm gonna take my hand away, but you can't call out to them, okay?"

I nod, scared out of my mind. It's not Max I'm afraid of. He's terrified, and that can't mean anything good.

Max removes his hand from my mouth but keeps the arm holding me on his lap in place. "Shit, shit, shit." He groans and rests his cheek against mine.

"Max, what's going on?" I whisper.

"That's the 'Welcome Wagon.' They come around every so often looking for survivors." There's dread in his voice, and it's contagious.

"And?"

Max leans in closer, and I feel the thud of his heart against my back. "And some things are worse than being out there."

**~AMoG~**

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**A/N: Welcome Wagon! Wonder what they're up to, and what could be worse than being out there . . . ? On a sad note, I lost my "Grace" this past week. She came down with DM (Degenerative Myelopathy) about a year ago and was doing really well in her wheelchair. Last week, Wheelie-dog had that twisted stomach thing, and we had to put her to peace. You are missed, sweet Sandy.**

**Next update in two weeks!**

**Follow me on Twitter: at SaritaDreaming or at SarahAisling**

**Fanfiction blog: saritadreaming dot word press dot com**


	6. Chapter 6 The Rules of Engagement

**A/N: Hello, lovely readers! Thanks for all the alerts, faves, reviews, and lurks! Most of all, thank you for the many heartfelt thoughts on the loss of my beloved Sandy. I heart you all.**

**Bits of seaglass to my awesome prereaders, Keye, Sandy, and Aleea, for their awesomeness and friendship. A backhandturnpull to Aleea this week. *snicker***

**Snuggle time with Max to my lovely beta, SassySue (chayasara). She keeps me from sounding like an idiot. I think.**

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**Chapter 6**

**~The Rules of Engagement~**

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Terror rages in my veins, a wild tempest of fear fueled by the unknown. Who are these people offering shelter, and what is their ulterior motive? There must be one. Max is a jerk, but he doesn't strike me as a liar. If he's afraid, I'm terrified.

The message begins again.

"_Attention, survivors! You don't have to be out on your own anymore. We have food, clothing, supplies, power, and best of all—other survivors. All are welcome."_

It's closer. _They're closer._

Grace lies down by the front door with her back to us and growls.

Max's large form is frozen in place, surrounding me like a human cage. His heart thumps against my back, and the stubble on the side of his face pinches mine. This man is a stranger, holding me in an intimate embrace, yet I fear if he lets me go, I'll scream or fall to pieces.

"Shh . . . Bella, it's going to be okay." Max rocks lightly, taking me with him. "Breathe for me."

I nod in understanding even as I feel the telltale panic constrict my lungs. It takes great effort to pull air in and out, but I keep doing it. I long for my cell phone, to let Katie's voice talk me down, but my bag is too far away. Besides, Max is here, and I'm not sharing the Panic Opus with him.

Soft mewling sounds escape me when the Welcome Wagon reaches Fortune Street. They're probably visible from the upstairs windows now, but the thought of leaving Max's strong arms or putting a face to the enemy liquefies my insides and turns my legs to rubber.

Max presses his hand over my mouth gently and continues to rock. "They'll be gone soon. I promise."

Grace gets to her feet, the hackles rising on her neck. She angles her head and sniffs at the crack along the bottom of the door.

Max is right. They don't come any closer, and the recording becomes a garbled drone fading into the distance. Now that I know they aren't friendly, the message is no less creepy even from afar, and my heart still pounds uncomfortably behind my ribs.

At some point, I realize Max's hand is no longer over my mouth but rests on my shoulder, a few fingers curled over my collarbone, rubbing lightly.

"Max?" I whisper. "What the hell was that?"

"That was society's worst nightmare." His voice is strained and hoarse. "The worst of the worst, doing shit in the name of what's right."

"You're not making any sense."

"The world doesn't make sense. If you expect it to, you're going to be sorely disappointed."

Max shudders around me. I shake.

We remain that way for a long time, me wrapped inside this sometimes gentle, more often gruff man who has become my sudden lifeline.

**~*AMoG*~**

When Max finally deems it safe to move, my body is stiff and slightly sweaty in the places we were connected. I hobble across the room and turn, watching him unfurl from the chocolate leather coach and stretch his arms, huge biceps bunching and flexing. His size surprises me all over again. The man takes up so much space in the room, and it's not all mass. It's just _him_.

Cool air hits my right clavicle and shoulder, both arms, back, and behind my thighs—all the areas touched by Max—and gooseflesh tingles across my skin, up my spine, and over the nape of my neck. I hold my breath for a few beats and let it go slowly. My heart thumps faster.

Max cracks his neck and shakes out his hands. "Shit, that was close." He gazes down at me, completely unaffected.

Apparently, I'm the only one who reacted to "cocooning." Then again, maybe Max doesn't have the personal boundaries I do, and he probably doesn't suffer from panic disorder, either. He doesn't have much in the way of social graces, but I doubt it's affected his ability to attract female company.

"Was it?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

"What?" Max continues stretching, pulling one arm across his broad chest.

"Close. Was it close?"

He raises his own brows now, staring back quizzically. "What do you think, Einstein?"

Anger sears my veins, closing off the last bit of awkwardness I feel. Annoyance is something familiar, especially when it comes to Max. "I don't know what to think." I eradicate his signature smirk with my next comment. "You're too busy trying to kick me out of town to tell me what the hell is going on! Here's a scenario for you, Max—what if you hadn't been here when they came around?"

Max's mouth drops open.

I ball both fists on my hips, getting into this. "Let me enlighten you. I would have run into the middle of the street waving my arms, you fucking jerk!"

Max's mouth stays open, and his eyes widen. He even looks a bit repentant.

I cross the living room and tap a hand under his jaw as I pass him, smacking his mouth shut. "You're catching flies, Jack."

Grace whines uncertainly and follows me out to the porch. She stands still, sniffing the air for a few seconds, then trots into the yard to do her business. Grace doesn't seem to sense danger, so I lean on the railing and suck in deep breaths. My heart is racing, both from the way I just treated Max and because the reality of what I accused him of is settling deep in my gut. His games could have cost me my life. I'm too angry to cry right now, but I'd love to use his head as target practice.

I watch Grace romp around the yard, rolling on the ground to scratch an itch or racing from one end to the other. The danger must be past if she's so carefree. I join her, sitting cross-legged in the whisper-soft blades.

The leaves of a huge oak flutter in the breeze, creating a lacy pattern over the brilliant green grass. Birds sing to one another between the trees. The orangey orb of the sun hangs low in the sky, emitting a burnished gold wash that amplifies everything in its path. I raise a hand to shade my eyes and squint into the light.

This has always been my favorite time of day. Things seem quieter, more peaceful. The world hasn't succumbed to darkness yet, and a sense of hope and possibility fills the air. My thoughts drift to the sunflower field, where I sat among a thousand fragrant suns. A tiny frog hopping along the ground alights on my finger when I hold it out, and I'm fascinated by the little guy looking back at me.

A scuff on the porch behind me announces Max's presence and disturbs my preoccupation with Kermit. My arm shakes, and the frog takes off, disappearing into the grass. I don't turn Max's way but continue looking into the sun.

He folds himself down beside me. From the corner of my eye, I watch him wrap those muscular, tattooed arms around his folded up knees. "You shouldn't stare into the sun," he says.

"Why not? I might blind myself and miss out on this crap world?"

Max laughs and nudges his arm into my shoulder. I'm not ready to be pleasant just yet, so I move to stand.

"Hold up." Max grabs my arm, yanking me off-balance, and I land on my duff.

I glare at the tanned fingers encircling my bicep. "Get your hands off me."

Max pulls away. "Sorry. I just . . . want to talk." His voice is low and repentant.

"_Now_ you want to talk?" I glance up at him. The fire of the sun lights his angular face and reflects back at me from his transparent eyes. The gleaming rays deepen his buzz-cut hair and the stubble on his face to a deep, reddish-gold. _Stupid, pretty boy. _

My traitorous heart beats a bit wildly. Katie's voice fills my head. _A fine specimen is a fine specimen is a fine specimen, Ro._

"Listen, I'm sorry." Max makes that nervous motion again, the one that indicates he used to have longer hair. "I didn't mean any harm. I just wanted you gone."

I stare at him incredulously. "Why?"

"It's not safe here."

"It's not safe out there." I fling my arm in the air.

Grace meanders over and insinuates herself between Max and me, lying down.

"Guess she thinks we need a referee." He snickers.

"She's not far off." My tone is acerbic.

I run my fingers absently through Grace's fur and end up bumping into Max's hand doing the same. I pull back awkwardly and look away.

"At least out there, you have a chance to blend in, to hide."

I turn his way, but Max stares straight ahead now, and I end up looking at his cheek. His jaw is so tight, a muscle twitches.

My stomach churns. "When I left home, I traveled to my Uncle Jack's. He was a conspiracy theorist who lived off the grid and had a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Know what I found there?" I take a deep breath and fight off the guilt. "Two men were shacked up. They were keeping a woman prisoner in the cabin. I . . . wanted to save her, but they came back, and I hid in a tree. The next day, I heard them talking about how the woman drowned in the creek when she tried to escape. If they found me, I knew I would have been her replacement."

Max stares at the ground, shredding bits of grass between his fingers. "You couldn't save her, Bella. Even if you had time to free her, they would have hunted both of you down."

"We could have split up and gone our separate ways."

Max finally looks at me. The molten rays of the sun light his eyes with the warm gold and blue-green of the beach and sea. "First, I don't believe you would leave a possibly injured woman out on her own." He reaches over Grace and grabs my hand, exerting firm but gentle pressure. "And what if those men had gone searching in _your_ direction?"

I turn away from his earnest expression. Max is an enigma. He seems worried about my welfare, yet he wants to toss me into the fray of the unknown, defenseless and alone.

"It might have made your life easier, huh?"

Max's grip tightens almost painfully. "What? Why would you even say such a thing?" His tone is laced with the utmost disgust. "You're just absurd."

I laugh. "Oh, _I'm_ absurd? You've been working so hard to throw me to the wolves, and you won't tell me what the hell is going on around here!" I snatch my hand away. "And don't touch me!"

"You didn't seem to mind it earlier." His mutter is almost too low to catch.

Anger sizzles, a boiling brew below the surface, and I leap to my feet and stalk to the other side of the yard and rest my arms on the top of the fence. Gently sloping fields carpeted with bright green grass dotted with a rainbow of wildflowers sweep away from the edge of the neighborhood in this direction. Two sides of the fields end with trees, while a third segues into scrubby land that leads to the sea.

What Max said rankles, maybe because it's true. I _didn't_ mind being wrapped in his arms, the arms of a strange man who's demanded I leave here. Determined to get some answers, I push away from the fence and . . . smack directly into Max.

I raise my hands in self-defense, and one ends up planted on his six-pack—no, make that a ten spot—and the other smacks against a hard pec. My cheeks warm when a low chuckle rumbles under my fingertips.

"Can't keep your hands off, can you?"

I glare up at him and hate the amusement on his face. Grabbing both of his arms to steady myself, I haul my booted foot back and pretend the camouflage-covered shin is Max's face.

His arrogant expression contorts into a pain-filled grimace, and I eat up his agony, enjoying it even more when he howls.

"Yep, can't seem to keep my hands to myself." I smirk, giving his cheeks a double slap before returning to the view over the fence.

Max moves in close behind me, grabbing the fence to either side, effectively trapping me between the weathered wood and his body.

"I donkey-kick pretty good, too."

"Thanks for the warning." Max makes a vise out of his feet, trapping my boots between his.

"That won't save you."

He barks out a laugh. "I need saving? Seems you're in a bit of a pickle at the moment."

"My father taught me lots of things, including the many ways to take a man down."

"Oh, I'll bet you can get down, China."

Loosening my fingers on the top of the fence, I bend my knees and bring one elbow back at the same time.

"Ooph!"

I'm able to slip a foot from between his and pivot my body, bringing my palm up until it's a hair's breadth from his nose. "Another centimeter, and you'd be toast. Or I could have crushed your windpipe." I slip past a shocked Max and head toward Grace, who watches from her resting place with curiosity.

A black boot hooks my ankle, sending me face first to the ground. Max sits on top of me, pinning my arms at my sides. I turn my face, blowing grass out of my nostrils.

Moist breath ghosts along my cheek. "Lessons of the new world, China. Don't turn your back on the enemy unless you know they're down for the count. Never underestimate the enemy. Most important rule of all—no mercy." Max kisses my cheek and releases me.

My face burns with indignation, and my insides quiver. I roll over and shoot my dirtiest look his way. "That was a dick move."

Max rubs a hand over his jaw and offers me a hard look. "No, it wasn't. You may have picked up some tricks along the way, but the rules of engagement have changed. No mercy. No second chances. You put down rabid dogs so they can't bite again." He takes a few steps closer and holds a hand out. "Come on."

I reach out, but instead of allowing him to help me up, I yank him off-balance. As he comes toward me, I tuck in my knees and use my feet to propel him over my head. Max hits the ground with a solid thump. I hop up and wipe my hands on my pants.

"You just broke your own rules."

Max groans and rolls to a sitting position, shaking his head. "Damn, girl. I definitely wasn't expecting that." He rubs his sore shin and smiles up at me, the first genuine smile ever meant for me. The smile lights up his face, and my heart thumps in answer. It slips away almost as quickly, and Max's brows draw down. "I don't think of you as the enemy. I was just trying to save you from . . ."

I fall to my knees in the grass next to him. "What? For fuck's sake, what are you trying to save me from? Who _are_ those people, and why are they worse than what's out there?"

"They're collecting survivors, Bella. They have clothes and food and power, just as promised, but the part they aren't saying is _why_ they'd offer to share with total strangers."

I stare into Max's eyes, trying to discern if there's any deception in the oceanic depths. There isn't. "Go on."

"They want to know what many of us do—why did some people survive while most of the world perished? They take in survivors and use them, run tests on them, in an attempt to find a cure."

"What's wrong with looking for a cure?"

"Nothing. Unless you keep taking blood and running tests until the survivor becomes a casualty."

**~*AMoG*~**

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**A/N: Do you have goosies yet? I know I do! Much more interaction between Max and Bella this chapter—she's going to give him a run for his money. Would love to hear your thoughts, as always. I try to answer all the reviews, though sometimes I suck at it (like this past week).**

**Next update in two weeks!**

**Fans of _I Want it Painted Black_-the epilogue has been posted! Izzy and Boyscout's story is now complete.**

**Follow me on Twitter: at SaritaDreaming or at SarahAisling**

**Fanfiction blog: saritadreaming dot word press dot com**


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